Review of 'Bleak House'

Boasting a formidable 989 pages, Bleak House sat perched on my bookshelf for a long while, difficult to begin. Admittedly, at times, it was more difficult to finish, hour-long reading stints leaving an unnoticeable difference in the girth of remaining pages. Even more difficult than that is trying to find a unique angle on Dickens’ 1853 tour de force from which to write a review, or indeed anything, which hasn’t already been repeated to exhaustion in 150 years of analysis. (Geocriticism, anyone?) But what will prove most difficult of all will be endeavouring to scratch the surface of doing this tome any justice in a poxy review. It has been coined “sprawlingly ambitious” by Paul Gent in his review for the Telegraph, the opinion thereof clearly admiring the workload taken up by Dickens. Conversely, a peer into the slightly less venerable domain of internet comments sections found a rather differing conclusion from an Anon whose preferred summation was “intolerably long-winded”. Broadly, I would side with Gent on this one, as Dickens does manage to stay on the right side of entropy and produce a coherent piece, which is no mean-feat given the complexity of plots, sub-plots and side-plots. Nor does condemning the length and pace of this novel suggest adequate consideration of how the author released parcels of chapters in monthly instalments through 1853 and 1854, which would have negated any contemporary impression of (excessive) length. That said, I would fall short of lauding Bleak House as the apotheosis of Dickens’ artistic talent; there were some memorable turns of phrase, as ever with a Dickensian read, such as the elaborated description of Tom-All-Alone’s in Chapter 46, but ultimately there are some identifiable flaws, and characters came and went, and came back again (sometimes) on a basis too frequent for my preference for tighter structure.

A 'bleak house', of which the adjective's corporeality metaphorically represents the ethereal nature of its counterpart

As the ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’ lawsuit forms the kernel of all proceedings, it is unsurprising that many have seen Bleak House as a vitriolic excoriation of contemporary legal practice in England. Indeed, the third-person narrator (thus the voice most tainted by the author’s own prejudice) damningly countenances that “The one great principle of the English Law is to make business for itself”. Such egregious self-perpetuation is the keynote of the law theme throughout, manifested through Richard’s physical and mental decline, symbolic of the parasitic courts imbibing the life-force from their milieu. But perhaps this is most severe when superimposed on Dickens’ allusion to the indefatigable bulwark of legality in Victorian England. Kenge’s broken record-player profusion harking the ‘great system’ and ‘prosperous community…very prosperous community’ of the law is more than insubstantial equivocation in the author’s opinion as its tenet is bolstered on many occasions: Vholes’ depiction as a voracious financial black hole, the case’s subsumption of all which dares to go near it, Sir Leicester and Mr Boythorn’s stagnant reliance on lawyers. The impotence of law, for Dickens, is made all-the-more insidious by its deep-rooted vicegrip on society, upheld by generations of precedent and embedded firmly in our shared psyche. Whilst ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’ is obviously instigator of most of the novel’s misery, a much larger and unsettling point is being promulgated, pertaining to the unassailable destructiveness of the courts of law.

As well as taking up this imposing task of dismembering Victorian law’s mighty reputation, Dickens does not waver in his trademark assault on the 19^th Century’s ferruginous social topography. Most obvious of this is the somewhat pigeonholing of the aristocracy through the Deadlock family; the ennui of Lady Deadlock resulting from an idle life of financial security; the rapaciously gossamer loyalty of their cousins; Sir Leicester’s paranoia about the ‘floodgates of society’ bursting open. Unsubtle juxtaposition with Jo’s or Jenny’s abject poverty assumes vociferation of a call for domestic reform and an end to inequality. This is not, however, something which would have warranted almost 1000 pages to propound, and so is rightly sidelined by the other issues revolving around the lawsuit, and other points of interest which make the novel more than just another Dickensian social criticism.

My most rapturous moments whilst reading Bleak House were sparked not by profound themes nor plot subtleties, but in the minutiae of Dickens’ writing style and devices. Names, for example, form an integral semiotic role; divinely anonymous nod to Latinate etymology through Nemo’s name endows a sense of satisfaction to the more perspicacious reader, whilst the banal monosyllabism of ‘Jo’, and its surreptitious allusion, is within the grasp of all, classical background or not. Even ‘Jarndyce Against Jarndyce’s’ risibly mundane title resounds impossibly throughout the novel, reflecting the futile nature of its rectification. Dickens is at his best when he is in firm control over the characters and their humanity, their actions and their consequences, as it is in these moments that he most artfully applies his Minervan hand. Esoteric references are also always received gratefully, such as that which forms the basis of Julia Armfield’s thesis, which analyses the authorial morsels of nebulous details and then pencils ‘smallpox’ above Esther’s severe illness. This compelling reading points to a potential warning against those who may have wished to neglect the recently legislated Compulsory Vaccination Act by presenting the infelicitous reality of one illness which the law would combat. It is impressive that Dickens, whilst wrestling to maintain control of the swathe of plotlines weaving in and out, ever combining and fracturing, also dedicates time and care to the inclusion of such minor allusions and supplementary niceties which, in this reviewer’s opinion, is what elevates the novel beyond the unremarkable.

One irritant which emerged early on in the novel, and one which Dickens never managed to convince me on, was the absurdly ‘proper’ deportment of Esther. Her narrated chapters read like a contemporary handbook on self-amelioration and social conduct, and, even when she purports to be confessional, one can never dismiss the inkling that everything is covered by a layer of Victorian propriety which tarnishes Miss Summerson’s role as an integral character to a novel challenging the societal status quo. Of course, this could be intentional, an attempt to expose the gossamer facade of 19^th Century society and its untenably shallow reality, but the unwavering consistency in Dickens’ portrayal of Esther’s purity, and the manner in which all around adulate her incessantly, summons question marks to the fore over how much this social critique actually criticises. Furthermore, Esther’s good-nature rendered me unable to take her seriously, actually frustrating on occasion, somewhat undermining a novel which places emphasis on realism in all other regards (with the glaring anomaly of Krooks’ spontaneous combustion conveniently ignored). Yeats once said (rightly in my eyes) that ‘literature exists, in some degree, to reveal a more powerful, and passionate, a more divine world than ours’, and so Esther’s personification of humanity’s virtues in their undiluted form should merit a place in literature. I do not dispute that. But I do not believe that her place is in Bleak House, as she threatens to dismantle Dickens’ overarching assault on Victorian society by coaxing readers into believing in the comforting security of self-suppression and absolute endurance.

Reading Bleak House is a lot like ordering a seafood platter on the Barcelona coast in the height of summer. Before placing your order, you know that it’s going to be big, that it’s going to make no effort to play-down its size, and that its main objective is to attract the lion’s share of the passing crowd and sell itself flagrantly. You also know that it is probably going to be well cooked, taste good and leave little to be desired when it comes to a satisfied appetite. But what you might not have prior knowledge of is that, hiding under the generic fruits of the sea, the prawns and langoustines of the literary world, are some little gems, the unexpected gustatory delights which will most likely live longest in the memory, and bring you back to eat the same chef’s food in the future.

If Charles Dickens did maritime cuisine...